


chains of life

by hotchnya (tsunbrownie)



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: But the fucker deserved it, Child Abuse, Foyet is Hotch's imagination, Gen, Hotch killed his father, Hotch needs a Psychologist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 08:41:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15793020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsunbrownie/pseuds/hotchnya
Summary: The ghost of the present dredges up ghosts from the past.





	chains of life

**Author's Note:**

> This is brought to you by: my mind informing me that by both (canon-based) fanon settings of Hotch being severely abused by his father and Sean and Hotch having a fifteen year gap, coupled by the fact Hotch's father died in his early years of high school (probably) means that Hotch could have killed his father to stop him from abusing Sean like him. That snowballed into this. 
> 
> Unbeta'd, written far too fast and inconsistently - I'm not happy with it, but I'm not going to get any of my other writings finished if I keep obsessing over it, so here it is. 
> 
> Now I'm off to write about cats!

Hotch is a good profiler, he's learned to compartmentalize well. This means he usually doesn't let the ghosts of his past actions linger by his shoulders and influence his actions of the present, because what has been done is done, concrete, solid, constant, unchangeable. He pushes away the countless gunshots, the images of dead children and  _when you come back I'll make it up you_ 's because being objective is the key to being a leader who could keep his teammates to fight another day. 

Yet, sometimes,  _sometimes_ , on days where the case ends on a bitter note despite giving their best efforts, that becomes a lot more difficult than it usually is, his own brain traitorously forming images and voices he knows aren't real. 

_"Another day of being a hero, saving the day, eh, Aaron?"_

Hotch knows it's only a hallucination caused by exhaustion and self-blame, he knows because his psychologist covered it in their therapy sessions already and because being a profiler means knowing these things, yet he flinches nonetheless. It's not the first time, no, it's not even the hundredth time seeing the man looming over him, yet it is terrifying each time. 

_You're not real_ , Hotch viciously thinks while shutting his eyes, hoping that's enough to send the sneering voice away. It doesn't, but instead the voice bursts into laughter and increases in volume, like he's walking toward him. 

He opens his eyes, and Foyet is still there, staring into his soul, eyes twinkling with knowing and his lips twisted into a poisonous smile.  _Hallucination, it's nothing but my imagination running havoc from imagination_ , he tells himself, but it's difficult to believe in his own thoughts when he feels so real, when the fear is so real, the core of himself screaming to run, flee, escape.

He takes a deep breath in and tries to find calm. He repeats the phrase in his head, Haley's death isn't my fault, the people in the bus weren't my fault, they were Foyet's, who's now dead and buried thirty feet down the earth. My son is going to be fine, Jack is going to be fine because he is getting the care he needs and he knows I love him more than anything. 

At that, Foyet blinks.  _"We always cover the same ground every day,"_ the hallucination of the dead continues to loom over him.  _"That's boring. Let's talk about something else time, Aaron. Let's talk about your father,"_  Foyet whispers in glee and Aaron freezes on the spot instantly, clutching the armrest of the jet as tightly as he can. His heart rate quickens, the breath knocked out of his body. Something is wrong.

It's different this time. Every time this hallucination appeared, it taunted him on how he couldn't save Haley, how his son is going to grow up broken due to his obsession with the job, called him a hypocrite because how does a person who can't save his  _own_  family save anyone else's? Called him a hypocrite for promising, then failing. That's how it went the first hundreds of times, and that's how it should go, yet it's different this time.

(The case they just covered is the reason for the derailing, the profiler side of him insists, and the case they were summoned for instantly pops into his mind. John Sanders, fifteen, murdered fifteen people by mixing cyanide into two separate company water cooler his father owned. Victims including his father, whom was the real target all along. Who died because he abused John during the entirety of his life, and because John felt that this was the only way to protect her little sister who was on the way. Aaron had been the first one to the scene, trying to convince the kid - he was only a kid, god - that the sick man was dead, buried in a casket, and that he'll never haunt his dreams again. John had glanced up to him, murmured that he could never escape the influence, then went limp in Aaron's arms, smiling because he was happy that his sister would be fine now.)

_"Hy-po-crite,"_  Foyet gleefully bites down on the word, relishing the fear that appears on his face. Aaron's more focused on the eyes - the sharped, focused eyes that cut through his soul, perhaps because it  _was_  his soul. His psyche in a shape of a murderer here to rain judgement upon him.

_I'm not,_  he weakly retaliates, but he's hardly fighting back now. Lies are easier to counteract since they're nothing but ghosts - deception that can be exorcised with facts and reports - reality. This, on the other hand, is a shadow. It is shackled to his feet, following him, something you forget it is there until there is light and is reminded of its existence. And this is a shadow he haven't thought about for years, since he decided he'd join the BAU.

_"You're a liar, and a murderer. Now I understand why you were so insistent on saying that the accident was a murder,"_ Foyet lowly shakes his head, perfectly aware the damage each of his words are causing,  _"you were projecting!"_

_No_ , he repeats, but the word doesn't hold any strength anymore. He fixes his gaze to the floor, he's afraid what he'd find when he looks up. 

_"Already a dying man, and you couldn't bear to take chances, could you, Aaron?"_  Foyet sing-songs, delightfully devouring how blood instantly leaves Aaron's face and his hands get clammy.  _"He had lung cancer, he was organizing his life, but no. You had to send him down that spiral of hell yourself._ _All while saying it was for your little brother. What a joke, someone like you saying Johnny-boy should turn himself to the police."_

_He deserved to die_ , he bites down viciously.  _I did what I had to do_ , he keeps chatting the mantra. 

"You call me a horrible being, and I acknowledge that I'm not a stickler for rules, but imagine how your team would react when they figure out you're no better." 

Foyet leans closer so their noses are nearly touching but never is, because he's just a hallucination. Not real. Not real. Nothing but his head. But is that any better, having his mind constantly remind him of his sins? He's not sure. As he trembles silently, focused on not showing any weakness, Foyet greedily reaches forward, hovering over him.  _"Murderer."_

_I'm not,_  he lets out a shaking breath,  _I am not a murderer_ , he shivers through the words, and he realizes he's said them out loud when Rossi snaps his head up in worry. "Aaron," he starts, voice laced with emotion and knowing, and Hotch drops his head both in shame and a second of relief because Dave is referring to the Foyet murder, not his father's. 

From there, he lets Rossi give him the usual chat whenever he finds Hotch in distress, about how it wasn't his fault, and how the team is all here for him, that he doesn't have to be the collected unit chief all the time, and that no one expects him to be. He nods in frequent enough intervals that has Rossi pleasant with his reactions. Dave soon sighs, murmurs "you're not alone in this, Aaron," then takes off to a different spot knowing Hotch would appreciate a moment to himself.

The hallucination of Foyet has perished during the talk as it tends to whenever Dave holds him down and anchors him, but the pungent memory he dredged up clings and sinks into him, and as he slips to unconsciousness after staying up for forty straight hours, he knows salvation isn't what he'd see in his dreamscape. 

* * *

_"I'm pregnant."_

_It's those two words that finally drive him over the edge, beyond the cliff and to something else._

_He glances at the blackened mirror on the wall. He thinks back to the countless, 'I just want my daddy to love me' whispered while slipping into unconsciousness. He remembers watching his father beat his mother over, and over, and over, while he could only shrivel in the corner and beg him to stop. Powerlessness. Hopelessness. Despair. Deject fear._

_He can't have his little sibling inherit these burdens, he alone is enough._ _It's those words that finally freezes the liquid detestiation into a blade that could cut, hurt. Kill. There is only one way to stop the cycle, and his hand shakes at the thought._

_He is well-versed in criminal law; ridiculous for a fourteen-year-old, but not so much considering how desperate he was to please his lawyer father. Hopefully, he wouldn't have to take out his knowledge, but just in case, he tucks a familiar law book into his arms as he begins to plan._

_He knows his father is dying of lung cancer, although the pills signify that he could recover - a risk he just cannot take._

_Choosing a COD isn't so difficult. Heart attack. His family has a history, and 'prosecuting scumbags and serving justice' is no easy job, burdens brought home each day, finally causing him to short-circuit. Finding an easily accessible drug that would make it look like a heart attack is much more difficult, but his mother grows a collection of plants and he learns one of them could be manipulated to create toxins. With a couple visits to various_ _internet cafés, he has his bullet._

_Even though he has the weapon locked in the magazine of his metaphorical gun, he never pulls the trigger, wondering if this man could be redeemed, wondering if he would be taking an innocent life. His father, however, doesn't disappoint - almost bashes his head in, telling him he got the wrong bottle of vodka, and locks him in the cold cellar._

_Aaron gets to work._

_He takes the bottle his father asked for, doses it with the weapon he always carries. He meekly crawls to his father, pours the glass, and asks for forgiveness._ _The man drinks, unknowing of his impending fate._

_When his father drinks the entire bottle and starts to shake, he drags him to the bed, easily avoiding any punches and kicks thrown in his way. It's easy; his father is a sloppy drunk, and he's had years of practice. He watches as his father finally collapses onto the bed, the heaving of his heart indicating that the poison hasn't taken effect. Aaron isn't sure of the emotions that run through his body. Before the execution, he thought his heart would race so fast it'd burst out of its cages, but after doing the deed he's surprisingly calm, composed. Aaron reaches for the door, sneaks a glance at his father snoring away on the bed. Last time he'd see him as a live man._

_He doesn't say anything. He just sneaks out the door, reaches for his own room and tucks himself under the covers._

_The next day, he wakes to the shake of his frantic mother crying and he sees the EMT haul his father's now cold body. As he embraces his mother's body, his to-be sibling, he burrows his face into the junction where shoulder meets neck and chants a mantra: it had to be, it had to be, it had to be._

_Hopefully one day he'll be able to believe it._


End file.
